‘Well, we’re home, Melly,’ Roger Hammond stated unnecessarily, as he carried their bags from the garage towards the house where they had lived for the past four years.
His wife sighed. Her name was Melanie. Mel, she could live with, just, but Melly irritated her. The abbreviation conjured up a picture of a plump, cheerful country girl. She was none of those things. Roger had only started calling her that since they had moved down to the West Country. Whatever’s wrong with me? she wondered. I was so close to Roger when we were away. The minute we’re back from Greece I feel everything closing in on me again. They had got on so well for the past few weeks and now, more than ever, she ought to have felt happy.
Four and a half years ago each of her objections against leaving the Midlands had been squashed by reason and the disadvantages she had pointed out had been overcome by practical manoeuvres on the part of her husband until finally Melanie had agreed to the move. When Roger had suggested it she had guessed his motives for wanting it, but she had imagined he meant somewhere like Bath, not too far from London and at least with a veneer of sophistication, not, as it turned out, the ends of the earth.
‘It’s so far from everywhere,’ she had protested after they had driven down from their home in the Midlands to view the property for which an agent had sent details. When they arrived she had been aware of Roger watching her closely and knew that he had seen through her, that this last feeble stand was no more than that because she had loved the building, its grounds and the swimming-pool on sight. She had always fought him every inch of the way. It was in her nature to do so, hard as she tried to compromise.
Roger fingered his bunch of keys, automatically finding the two for the front door. ‘It was a good holiday. I’ve always liked Greece. And I’m glad you enjoyed yourself so much.’
‘Yes. I did. Thank you.’ Roger deserved that much, he had tried hard to make it good for her. And, in fairness to herself, she had done her best too. But she felt a bit odd, and very tired, and hoped these signs were normal and that she had not picked up some foreign bug. She glanced around, refamiliarising herself with the place while he inserted the first of the keys in the lock. He was a silent partner in something to do with steel, his actual role unclear to Melanie, but she was aware he could afford this house and the trappings.
The garden, which she loved tending, had turned out to be a bit of a disappointment. There were none of the colourful flowers she had grown at their previous house and had imagined would grow even better here. And the grass was rather parched, although it would recover. Annual bedding plants did not survive on the cliffside where they were unprotected from the salty winds and the elements. However, there were interesting shrubs and sub-tropical plants which grew to eight feet or more. Tiny pink flowers clustered tightly to their thick, woody stems from which spiky leaves also grew. There were tall Cornish palms and huge succulent-looking plants which thrived in the sandy soil, none of which she could yet name.
At the back of the house was the pool, surrounded by paving stones and earthenware pots of geraniums. This had been one of the deciding factors when Melanie agreed to buy.
A verandah ran along the front and both sides of the property which was built of stone, but not the local granite which she found unattractive. The top half of the house was timbered and painted a dazzling white; the main bedroom opened on to a small balcony from where they could look down over St Ives and out across the bay and, weather permitting, where they sometimes ate their breakfast.
‘Roger?’ Melanie touched his arm. She was frowning. To her right, one of the french windows was ajar; no more than an inch or so and motionless in the heat of the afternoon, but as she had turned she caught the reflection of her movement in the glass when normally she could not have done.
‘Oh, hell.’ Roger pushed open the front door and listened. There were no sounds, only the muffled silence of a house that had been left empty in the heat. Even the clock in the cool, square, tiled hall had run down.
‘Shall I call the police?’ Melanie’s face had paled beneath the Mediterranean tan. She knew how much Roger’s collections were worth. But another fleeting thought had crossed her mind.
‘No, I’ll take a look around first. Perhaps we just forgot to close it. Stay there, Melly.’ It had been very hot the day they left, possibly they’d overlooked one lock. I’m pissing in the wind, he thought. Of course we locked up properly. We both double-checked. No one went away for a month without doing so, even if they had little of value in the house.
The stairs were dappled in rainbow colours where the sun shone through the stained-glass of the porthole window on the half-landing. Roger decided to leave the upstairs until last.
The large room to the right of the hall where the window had stood open initially seemed untouched. There was no chaos, no upturned furniture or the scattered contents of drawers on the floor. If someone had broken in they had been extremely careful. Roger held his breath. Only when his eyes had adjusted to the relative dimness of the interior did he gasp. ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ There were blank spaces on the walls where paintings had once hung and empty surfaces where bronzes and porcelain had stood.
It was the same in each of the other downstairs rooms. My coins, he thought as sweat broke out across his forehead and beneath his armpits. The coins were in the safe in the kitchen, hidden in a box-like structure which ostensibly held the electricity meter. But the false meter on its hardboard mount swung out and to one side to reveal a wall safe with a combination known only to Roger. The real meter was under the staircase.
‘Thank God.’ It had not been touched.
‘Roger?’ Melanie had ignored his instructions and entered the house. She saw by his face what had happened and walked swiftly to the phone on the wall by the freezer. The line was dead. So was the one in the hall. Fumbling in her handbag she pulled out her mobile and rang the police. ‘No,’ she replied after she had explained what had happened, ‘we won’t touch anything.’
They waited outside in their holiday clothes in the shade of a clump of trees. They knew it could have been worse, that things might have been destroyed wantonly and that the thieves could have left a filthy mess, defecating on the carpets or urinating over the beds. It made no difference, their home had been violated and would never feel the same again.
Two cars arrived, one bearing two uniformed officers, the other a detective constable and his sergeant. In view of what Mrs Hammond had told them, that amount of manpower had been deemed necessary.
The details of how the Hammonds had found the house and an inventory of what was missing were recorded. Roger said he had a complete list of his collections in his desk and that he would double-check nothing else had been taken.
‘Are you insured, sir?’ the DS inquired.
‘Yes, of course. Only a fool would not be.’ Roger paced the sticky sweep of the tarmacked drive. Someone was on their way to take fingerprints, after which they could return to the house. He thought the officer seemed suspicious, as if Roger had arranged for the job to be done in his absence in order that he might make a claim.
‘Who knew you were away?’
‘I didn’t tell anyone locally.’ It was Melanie who answered. Her friends were in the Midlands, she had not made any new ones, only a few acquaintances.
‘Nor I. My business partners knew, of course, but they wouldn’t…’ He did not complete the sentence. There was one person he had told. He cursed himself for his foolishness until he realised that what he was thinking was impossible.
‘And the alarm?’
‘It was deactivated, as were both telephone lines.’
It was obvious to them all that this was the work of professionals who had known exactly what to take and what to leave. They had not, like mindless vandals, left their calling card in any shape or form, and it was doubtful there would be any fingerprints other than those which could be matched to a name known to the Hammonds. At least they had not discovered the safe. But had they known it was there? Had they been disturbed? There were neighbours, albeit hidden behind high hedges. Entry had been via the front because one villa, higher up, looked down over the back. The house could not be seen from the road because the drive curved sharply.
‘Who knew of your art collection, sir?’ The DS was sweating profusely. The sun was at its strongest and heat seemed to have pooled within the L-shaped angle of the house and garage. He wiped his face with a dark blue handkerchief.
Roger shrugged. ‘Close friends. Although I’ve never been foolish enough to discuss its value.’
The detective sergeant had noted more than the victims’ words. Mr Hammond was probably in his fifties, his wife about ten years younger. They were attractive and wealthy, but used to money. Their clothes and the property were tasteful rather than ostentatious. Mr Hammond had a slight paunch but appeared otherwise fit and healthy and his wife was naturally good-looking without having resorted to dyeing her hair back to its original blonde in order to maintain the illusion of youth. But there were undercurrents and they seemed, in their distress, more like two strangers than a long-married couple.
‘Any children?’
Roger had wondered when they would ask. It was perhaps a natural assumption that if they had teenage offspring they might have been staying at the house or one of them might have boasted about their father’s possessions or mentioned to someone that their parents were away. He glanced at Melanie. She was whiter still but said nothing. ‘No, Sergeant. No children.’ Not any more, he added silently. ‘Look, we’ve just returned from holiday.’ He indicated their bags which still stood on the verandah. ‘This could’ve occurred at any time during the past three weeks.’
‘I don’t think so. I think it was quite recently.’ The sergeant had already inspected the frame of the french window. Where it had been forced the wood was splintered and sharp and still pink and raw where the paint had flaked. In the heatwave it would have darkened in colour within a day or two. ‘When were you expected back?’
‘Not for another week, actually. We’d booked three weeks in Greece and intended visting old friends in Hagley on our way back. That’s why we chose to fly from Birmingham.’ He paused. ‘But we just couldn’t face it in this weather.’ Roger took a few steps backwards and lowered himself on to the sawn-off trunk of a tree. It had been cut down many years previously and made an ideal seat now that the ringed surface had worn smooth. He felt weak, ready for another holiday, as if his trip to Greece had not taken place at all. What a waste. All those years of hard work, all his efforts to please Melanie. Everything he touched seemed to go wrong. Even the burglary was probably down to him.
How ironical it was. Here, where there would be less temptation for his wife, where life was slower and safer, was where they had been robbed and where he had been the one to err. Their haven had become contaminated and he began to wish they had not moved.
It was two o’clock in the afternoon when they had returned but another four hours elapsed before the police seemed satisfied and they were allowed to enter their own home.
Melanie began to unpack. She wondered if they would ever be able to pick up the pieces and why she had not told him her news when they were away. Now hardly seemed the ideal time. But perhaps it was better to wait, there were other matters to sort out first.
She sat on the end of their king-size bed, suddenly exhausted. It was time she made more of an effort. They had both, in different ways, sublimated their grief and, later, their bitter disappointment. She had turned to other men, Roger had begun collecting works of art. Both were substitutes for what they really wanted. It was not Roger’s fault their baby had died and she had been unable to conceive again even though the experts had claimed there was nothing wrong with either of them. He had been patient, more than patient, and she had continued to punish him. And then, when her body began to signal that her menopause was imminent, she had finally accepted that she would never bear a child. This knowledge, this certainty, had mellowed her and she started to forgive him for something which had never warranted her forgiveness.
‘But it might be too late,’ she whispered as she stared at the lighter patch of wallpaper where a Marc Chagall had hung. She had broken their marriage vows often. The sex had meant nothing. The men had meant even less. It was escapism, nothing more. But if Roger was seeing another woman it was more than sex. She suddenly knew that she did not want to lose him. She now had the means to keep him but she did not have the heart to use them. If Roger stayed it must be because he wanted to.
The car radio crackled into life. ‘We think we’ve located the place where the Chynoweth girl might be, sir. We’ve found a hut and there’s a car parked to the side of it, although the officers who reported it can’t get a registration mark. They’re staying put, out of sight, until the rest of the team gets there. We’re going to look pretty daft if the pair of them are just having a romp in the hay, so to speak.’
‘Quite. But we can’t take that chance. I’ll join them there. Can you give me directions?’ Jack had left the Forbeses only minutes earlier. Even though he was off duty he had intended going to Camborne to see what he could do to help in the search for Sarah and to instigate a search for Rose. He had wanted to be there because no one would take seriously his report of a middle-aged woman who had only been missing hours. He accelerated, anxious to arrive at the scene at the same time as the rest of the team. He prayed that no one had been hurt, and that no one would be.
Leaving Penzance he negotiated the roundabouts, cursing at the amount of traffic hot weather engendered, the dawdling tourists and the drivers who needed a half-mile gap before slotting out between cars. He indicated and took the Helston road. It was not a long journey, no more than a few miles – his destination wasn’t even as far as Porthleven. He had taken Rose there in the days when they had been seeing each other regularly. It had been at the end of the season, when there were fewer tourists and it was a pleasure to wander around the fishing village without tripping over someone every few yards. They had smiled when they overheard people say how much they would love to live there. They did not see the other side, the unemployment in the county, the lack of facilities in the winter when West Cornwall seemed to close, nor did they witness the gales which swept walls of water over the high-sided harbour, where a freak wave could wash you out to sea. He could remember her smile of pleasure when, after a drink in one of the pubs, he had told her he had booked a table at a fish restaurant. After they had eaten they had walked back to the car hand in hand. I must not think of Rose, he told himself. I must remain detached.
To the right grassy slopes ran down to the edge of low cliffs beyond which was nothing but the sea. The turning was no more than a track; he had noticed it before but he had not realised there was a hut lower down. One officer, at least, was deserving of praise to have found it and, hopefully, the people they were looking for. This was supposedly private land, or so the weatherbeaten sign at the entrance declared, but he had heard over the radio that no one had yet discovered who it belonged to or what it was used for. Much of the coastline around there was owned by the National Trust; this area, however, was not.
Jack took the turning and drove slowly across the bumpy tufts of grass whose roots had managed to survive in the sun-baked earth. The remaining flowers on the gorse bushes were dark yellow, almost orange, as the last of them died. Later they would bloom again. Below, shimmering in the heat of the evening, lay the bay. Surface ripples danced like a million silver fish. Sunlight glinted off the police vehicles which had been parked high up and to the left of the wooden building where they could not be seen. To the right of it the bonnet and radiator grille of a car was visible, but its number plate was plastered with mud. The hut was in surprisingly good repair considering what the elements must have thrown at it. Half a dozen men stood around, but well back and out of view. Another sat sideways in the front of a squad car, his feet resting on the grass as he listened to a message over the radio. He stood up and waved a hand. Another officer raised his in response to the signal then turned to face the shed.
The breeze was coming off the land but Jack was still able to hear what was said through a loud-hailer, some of the words louder than others as the wind briefly changed direction. ‘Police. We’d like to talk to you. Please come out and identify yourselves.’ There was no response. No one had approached the door and knocked. Jack assumed that this was because they did not know if whoever was inside was armed. If there was any connection between Sarah’s disappearance, Joe’s death and drugs they might well have a gun.
Jack parked and went to join the group of men. They might be wasting their time. The hut might be empty, the car abandoned. Even so he had a feeling that this was not the case. Please let Rose and Sarah be safe, he prayed.
‘What’s happening?’ Jack asked in a whisper.
‘We saw a movement. There’s definitely someone in there.’
The man with the loud-hailer tried again. For the second time his request met with no response. It was a stand-off. They might have to take the place by force eventually, something they tried to avoid unless there was no alternative.
They waited. After what seemed like an eternity, the window opened a fraction and someone inside the hut spoke.
‘Keep away if you don’t want anyone to get hurt.’ The voice travelled thinly towards them as the wind snatched at it greedily.
The figure moved swiftly back from the window, visible only because there must have been another source of light on the other side of the structure. The silhouette had been backlit. If you don’t want anyone to be hurt, he had said. It had been the voice of a male. But the word ‘anyone’ gave no indication as to how many people were inside, or it could have meant one of themselves.
Jack looked at his watch. It was almost seven fifteen. The sun was lower in the sky now, sinking down behind the mound of the coastline to his right and painting the sky in pastel shades. But it would be some time before it set completely when the purple clouds of night would rise from the horizon and the red streaks of a dying day would inflame them. It was better to have daylight on their side. Rose loved sunsets. And sunrises, and everything to do with nature. The thought of her, frightened and in danger, was enough of a spur for him to make a decision. The wrong decision. He had assumed, without checking, that Rose was inside and that it would fall upon him to rescue her. Aching and dizzy with flu, in his fear for Rose’s safety he had forgotten his own position. ‘All right, that’s enough, let’s get on with it,’ he said.
‘But, sir, we don’t know –’
Jack snatched the loud-hailer and held it to his lips. ‘You’ve got five minutes then we’re coming in.’
The team stared at him as if he was mad. The inspector was a professional and he wasn’t even on duty. They were dealing with a hostage here. He knew, as they all did, that you negotiated, no matter how long it took, and only when there was finally no other course of action or someone’s life was in danger did you go in. Amongst them were men experienced in this sort of situation, trained to deal with it, the ones who should be making any such decisions. And when you did take the place, you did it with stealth, with the element of surprise and with as little risk to all parties as was possible.
Jack’s shirt stuck to his back. He felt their eyes on him and knew what he had done. If things went wrong he would never be able to forgive himself. I shouldn’t be here at all, he realised. He wasn’t even part of the team. A combination of events had made him irrational, had made him over-react. He knew the rules and he had broken them. And you did not lie to hostage-takers. He had said what he had said and now they would have to stick to it. He felt a firm hand on his arm.
‘Jack, go home.’ Andy Peters, a trained negotiator, was speaking to him. He saw by Jack’s grey and sweating face that he was ill.
He shook his head. ‘I can’t. Not now. I’m sorry.’ His apology was general. He was sorry for more than what he had done.
Andy sighed. ‘Okay, but keep out of things. You’ve done enough damage already.’
They waited until the five minutes were up then the men fanned out around the building. They had no idea how many people were inside or whether their quarry was armed. The only certainty was that there was one man who had issued a threat, but to whom it had been directed they did not know.
Jack stood back and watched. There would be questions to answer when all this was over, possibly even disciplinary action would be taken, but that was in the future. Sick with shame he watched his fellow officers whose lives he may have endangered. What he had done must never happen again. His feelings for Rose had overcome his training and his professionalism. At that moment he both loved and hated her, hated her because his love for her had prompted him to make a stupid mistake.
And what of Douggie? What had he to do with any of this? Douggie must have been mistaken, he had misconstrued whatever he might have overheard. The man in the shed had threatened violence, he might even be armed. Something this big, something which possibly involved firearms would not have been discussed casually over a few pints. But Douggie had been right to tell him.
‘Christ!’
Jack thought he heard the exclamation before the flash of light and the report of a single gunshot registered. His legs buckled and he fell to the ground but he could not understand why. He felt no pain, only a numbness in his left thigh. The sky swooped above him but all he could think of was that Rose was supposed to be the one at risk, not himself. He did not know if she was in there, or if the gunman would now kill his hostages. If she died there wouldn’t be an awful lot left to live for. He finally admitted what he had always known, that he loved her.
There was shouting as blurred shapes moved past him. Through the sun-baked earth beneath his body he felt the vibration of running footsteps. Blood pounded in his ears and a face swayed in and out of focus above him. The world started to spin, kaleidoscope-fashion. There was a noise in his head like hundreds of gongs.
‘Rose?’ he muttered, before he lost consciousness.